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I wrote this up a while ago and I'd like some honest critique on it. It's a bit dark for me...

There is a girl. A girl with a frail figure and bony hands. A girl with thin red hair that falls to her elbows. A girl with a ghostly pallor but dark circles around her eyes. A girl with eyes like ice that have lost their depth.

There is a girl. A girl never seen without a pencil between her fingers. A girl with books stacked to her nose. A girl whose cheeks flush when she gets an idea. A girl whose eyes sparkle like a river as she reads her work.

A girl who writes words that nobody reads.

There was once a couple that was never in love. A woman with thick golden hair and a full figure. A man with a contagious smile and an infectious laugh. For a time, they thought they were in love. But it was an illusion of the ears, a combination of her violin and his voice, that made the all the sounds of love, without the love itself.

They each wanted children, and decided to marry. Then they made love without any love. They had a girl after many tries, but he wanted a boy and she wanted one of each gender, so they tried for years and years. And then she was pregnant, and they had to know. It was a boy.

His life went by in only six minutes. He was passed from the doctor to his mother to his father to his mother. He didn’t cry, just breathed small breaths until he was gone. She would let no on hold him and he was buried within days.

His sister wanted to write him a eulogy, but her parents declared it pointless. She wrote it anyway.

She wrote words that nobody read.

And their daughter watched as her father stopped speaking, stopped smiling, stopped loving her. She was the only person he had loved in their family until his son. But when the boy died he stopped, because he was left with only her, and he didn’t, couldn’t love her anymore.

And the father followed his son by trying to stop the pain.

The label said it would ease pain in his heart, so he took the whole bottle, but it stopped his heart from beating.

And his newfound widow woke up next to the man she never loved and never loved her.

It was then that she realized they never loved each other, and she took out her violin and played him a song of good-bye, but it squeaked and scratched out the noises of their broken hearts.

And his daughter took her notebook and wrote out her final farewell, and since her father couldn’t read it she asked her mother.

“I wrote something for Daddy,” she said with a sad and quiet voice.

“He’s dead,” her mother replied, firm but still distant.

“I know,” she replied, staring at her feet, scared and fighting back tears, “will you read it?”

“He’s dead,” her mother repeated.

And so the girl went upstairs and kept writing words that nobody reads.

And over the years the girl aged into middle school.

And each night her mother would sit in a chair and play her violin until she fell asleep. And each night was just as awful as the first night when she awoke beside the man she never really knew.

Her daughter would be in her room, listening to the screeching sounds of her mother’s music and writing lyrics for her songs. She wrote songs of love and loss and family and night.

Each morning, she would ask her mother if she’d like to read them, and then left, defeated.

And she went back to writing words that nobody reads.

She wrote poems for her father who loved her brother more.

She wrote stories for the brother she never held.

She wrote plays for the friends she didn’t have.

She wrote essays for the teachers who didn’t want them.

The girl would ask her mother, the children in her class and her teachers. But her teachers didn’t have the time, the children weren’t her friends and it hurt her mother too much. And the girl’s heart broke a little more with each ‘no’.

Writing words that nobody reads.

Finally she grew desperate, desperate for someone to read her words.

“Mommy?”

“What is it?” her mother asked, tired and harsh.

“Will you please read something?” she begged, thrusting out her notebook, five subjects of her life’s works.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re dead!” her mother yelled at her, “get it through your head!”

“Please,” the girl begged, her arms limping, her eyes watery and her voice barely a whisper.

“No!” her mother screamed, smacking her across the face and throwing her to the floor. And the girl, bleeding from her head and now openly crying, scrambled to pick up her notebook and rushed upstairs before her mother could hit her again.

Her mother sat and cried, thin wisps of graying blonde hair fell past her face, hallow and empty eyes burst into tears for the first time in front of her daughter. She had sometimes hit her daughter. But she never blood on her daughter.

Her daughter wrote it down, trying to convince herself again and again that her father didn’t love her brother more, that her mother didn’t love them more.

Writing untrue words that nobody reads.

And her daughter never asked the woman again, and a month went by.

And the woman, she had tied things to the ceiling for days and days, playing her violin worse and worse as the week went by. She barely ate, and her skeleton of a frame grew thinner and thinner. One night she brought her chair, her usual chair, and stood up on it, resting her head.

And her daughter was upstairs, trying to write words that nobody would read. She heard a crash and almost went downstairs, but she heard her mother’s violin and knew she was alright.

And the woman, with her head in a noose, played her violin, beautiful at last. She heard her husband’s voice, calling her home to her son with a song. She played an ‘I’m coming’ song, an ‘I’ll be there soon’ song. But it was also a good-bye song, to her daughter, upstairs unable to find words.

And the woman, who had been dead for years, stopped playing. Joining her husband and son, finally in love, finally happy.

And her daughter, who gave up writing words that nobody reads.

The part with the father's suicide and when the mother hits her are driving me especially crazy.